


The Other

by TristansGirl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cthulhu Mythos, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something has been haunting a young musician . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I suck at summaries. So I'll say this - this is supposed to be a Lovecraftian horror story. I don't write these very often, so it's a bit of a challenge for me. Another challenge was to write this in journal form, using more old-fashioned wording but setting it in today's modern world.
> 
> I am warning for completely disregarding most facts about mental hospitals and the treatment that someone would undergo there. My apologies for that.

September 25, 2011

It’s three in the morning and he’s finally sleeping.

He’s sleeping but I can’t. I’ve tried, I have, but whenever I close my eyes I see . . . I see that thing - that horrible, terrible thing and the way it reached . . .

But no, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I should start at the beginning. That was the purpose of sitting down and putting pen to paper; the thought that I should chronicle everything, before time and the fallacy of human memory takes the details away.

But where to begin, exactly?

Perhaps I should start by stating that my name is Adam and up until only yesterday, I worked as a nurse at a mental hospital on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

A few weeks ago, a young man was brought in and admitted to the facility His name, as I soon found out, was Thomas, yet he insisted that everyone call him Tommy. He caught my eye right away, not so much because he was handsome, though he was, but more because he was so unlike our other residents.

Most everyone else at the hospital was bedraggled, their eyes rendered dim and glossy by their psychosis. But not Tommy. His eyes were alive and aware; though they held in them a nervousness and fear that I was loathe to see. He was young, small in stature and slight, his obviously bleached hair falling haphazardly across his face.

He was summarily assigned to Dr. Carver and assigned a room, settling into the routine of the hospital.

I was told that he was diagnosed as schizophrenic, with severe paranoid delusions, though his mania did not tend toward violence. His delusion in particular was that of being pursued by this thing, this other, a being that he referred to as a monster.

Two days after being admitted, I came across him in the rec room, sitting by himself at a table. As he sat, his hands beat out a tattoo against the wood, almost a pattern, as if he were drumming. Curious, I made my way over and sat across from him. He stopped and brought his hands close to his chest, looking up at me fearfully. Some of the fear seemed to dissolve when he recognized me as one of his nurses.

“You don’t have to stop,” I said.

Tommy shook his head, dropping his gaze. His voice was low, barely a whisper. “I didn’t know I was doing it.”

“Are you a drummer or something?”

He looked back up at me, his large, brown eyes alive with something other than fear. “Something,” he said quickly, causing me to smile. “I . . . I play guitar. Played guitar. Before . . . you know.” He made a vague gesture that I’m sure was meant to encompass the hospital, his delusions, everything.

“Well, that explains the hair and the tattoos,” I said, referring of course to his hairstyle and also to the myriad tattoos that adorned his arm.

He smiled at me, a small, tentative smile that nevertheless seemed to light up his entire face.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. “Yeah, well, I don’t anymore. Play, I mean.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, after all, I’m a nurse, not a psychiatrist. And besides, he’d looked down again, staring at his hands as they moved incessantly against the table.

I stood and told him that I should get back to work. But before I could leave, I heard his voice, this time in something slightly stronger than a whisper. “Your name’s Adam, right?”

I told him that it was.

He tilted his head, peering up at me from underneath his bangs. “You’re nice. You don’t . . . I’m not afraid of you.”

I stood still for a long moment, feeling both surprised and flattered. And, also, very sad. There was something about this young man that caused all my protective instincts to go into overdrive. More so than even my job demanded. “You don’t have to be afraid of anyone here, Tommy.”

He didn’t acknowledge me further, refused even to look at me, so after waiting another few moments, I left him there, alone.

Another two days passed, and in that time, I found myself drawn more and more to Tommy, as if there were an invisible magnet between us.

I interacted with him only briefly and professionally in that time, but my eyes seemed to follow him whenever he was in sight and my mind seemed constantly occupied by thoughts of him.

On the third day, I found him in the rec room again, sitting at the same table, once again alone. I sat down across from him.

“Hi, Tommy.”

He looked up, sparing me only a quick glance before fixing his gaze upon the table. As I watched, his fingers began to drum a rhythm against it.

“How are you today?” I asked.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Ok, I guess.” He glanced around as if he expected someone to be listening. “They haven’t started the drugs or electroshock or anything.”

I smiled gently. “Medication, probably. We don’t use electroshock therapy here, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Whatever,” he said, shrugging again, eyes going dull in a way that I didn’t like. He’d only been here a total of five days; surely this place wasn’t draining him already? In fact, the only thing about him that seemed alive were his hands, as if all his energy were contained in them.

I focused on them as I blurted out, “I sing.”

It seemed a silly thing to say and I found myself blushing, wishing I could retract it. Or at least, I did until I saw a glimmer of interest in Tommy’s eyes. His hands stilled as he looked at me.

“You . . . sing?”

“Well, not too much anymore. Mostly in the car and around the house. But I used to – in high school and college. I was in theatre and choir. And once I was even in a band.”

I shut my mouth when I realized that I was babbling, but it didn’t seem to bother Tommy. If anything, he seemed at least mildly interested in what I was saying.

“I don’t sing, I never have,” he said in that quiet voice of his. “You’re lucky.”

“Everyone can sing a little bit,” I said.

He shook his head. “Not me. You’d run in the other direction.”

I chuckled at that and he smiled. His smiles were always too brief though and it disappeared almost instantly.

“What kind of music do you like?” I asked, hoping to continue the conversation and maybe even to elicit another smile.

He looked around again as his hands came alive with nervous energy. He rubbed them together, one over the other, almost as if he were washing them. I waited, but when it seemed that no answer was forthcoming, I made to leave. It was at that moment that I heard him say, “I like Marilyn Manson.”

I settled back down into the chair, feeling very pleased, certain that I’d somehow made a great stride.

I can still remember it now, how pleasant that conversation was, even if did only last a few minutes, long enough only to compare some of our favorite bands.

This sort of thing continued for several days. We would engage in small conversations, mostly about music, always in the rec room as the other patients milled about.

And then came the day when everything changed. I didn’t know it at the time of course, the way my life would twist, the dark paths upon which I would soon be forced to walk.

At the time, it seemed a day like any other. I sat down with Tommy, noticing that instead of his usual t-shirt he wore a long sleeved shirt, and over that, a thick robe. He had the robe clutched at his throat, as if he were very cold.

“Tommy? Are you all right?”

He looked at me, his eyes dark and wide. His hands dropped to the table, scrabbling at its surface, as if he were scratching at it or trying to scratch through it. It was unnerving enough that I nearly reached over to clasp his hands and hold them still.

“What is it, Tommy?”

He looked about, casting suspicious, nearly fearful glances all around the room. “I can . . . I can trust you, right?” he asked as he leaned toward me.

He was so obviously agitated that it was heartbreaking to see. Once again I had to control my urge to take his hands in mine and attempt to offer comfort. Instead I leaned in toward him and lowered my voice to match his. “Of course you can trust me.”

He exhaled noisily, brought a hand to his mouth and began to chew on his thumbnail. He rocked back and forth, the manic energy that had been in his hands now seemingly having invaded his entire body.

I was just about to speak, to attempt to quiet him, when he leaned in abruptly, his whispered words slow and precise. “I don’t think that Dr. Carver is Dr. Carver anymore.”

I shook my head, unsure if I was hearing correctly. “What?”

He shrank back, muttering almost to himself. “You think I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy.”

“Tommy, it’s all right. I don’t . . . just tell me again. Explain to me why you think Dr. Carver’s changed.”

He came back in, whispering once again. “I think he’s one of them,” he said, placing special emphasis on the last word. “The thing. The other.”

I took a deep breath, remembering his diagnosis, his paranoia at being pursued by some unknown monster. I felt that I should walk away, but I knew that I could not. It was partly curiosity that kept me in my chair. Yet there was something else too. It was the fact that I saw no trace of insanity in Tommy’s eyes.

“What is it?” I found myself asking.

Tommy leaned in closer, so close that our faces were only inches apart. “I can’t say it. I can’t.” He glanced around. “I can . . . do you . . .” He made an impatient gesture with his hand, one I quickly understood to mean that he was asking for something to write with.

I had a pen in my pocket, I nearly always did, but lacked paper. I dropped the pen on the table and pushed my chair away, intent on finding some, when he grabbed my hand and brought me close to him. For a brief moment I was afraid of him, but then he turned my hand over and pressed the tip of the pen against it. I held very still as he wrote, counting out the letters as he took his time with them, almost as if he needed them each to be perfect.

There were eight letters. Eight letters in all.

When he finished, he held my hand up to his chest and squeezed tightly. “Don’t show anyone. And don’t say the word. Never say the word aloud.”

And then he was gone, moving away from me with more speed and agility than I would have thought possible.

I opened my hand slowly, almost afraid to look at the writing on my palm.

Eight letters in all.

And they spelled a word I had never seen before.

Shoggoth.


	2. Chapter 2

Having that word written upon my skin in glaring black ink was somehow disquieting. I found myself staring at it intermittently throughout the day, wondering at the strangeness of it.

That very night I sat at my computer, trying to determine the meaning of the word. Unfortunately, there was very little information to be found, only some vague allusions to a horrific entity, something that was not from this plane of existence.

I turned the computer off and went to bed feeling unsettled, and that night I had very strange dreams.

I can’t say that I recall what exactly they were, only that when I woke I did not feel rested, but instead, on edge and wary.

The feeling dissipated as the morning wore on and the sun dispensed the gloom of night.

I felt foolish for allowing one little word to get the better of me, and more foolish yet for allowing myself to get so drawn into Tommy’s illness.

I went to work that day determined not to engage Tommy. After all, this was a delusional man, a very sick man, and as such, I had to be careful.

Yet my resolve quickly melted away when I saw him in the rec room, sitting alone as usual. He looked so desolate, so forlorn, and dare I say it, so beautiful, that I couldn’t help but go to him.

I sat down opposite him, glancing quickly down at my own hand, at the place where he had written that one word. The letters had disappeared of course, having been washed away by this morning’s shower, and yet it was almost as if I could still feel them on my skin.

He spared me only the barest of glances when I said his name, his quick, fluttering hands the only part of him that seemed to hold any life.

“Tommy. I want to talk to you about yesterday. About that word you wrote on my hand.”

He raised his head and met my gaze straight on and it was only then that I truly noticed how he looked, how he seemed both exhausted and on edge at the same time. And how his eyes were wide with terror. He shook his head. “No, please.”

I could only stare, unsure of what to say next.

“What if it hears?” he asked, his voice hushed and frantic as he looked around. “It might hear.”

“The sho-“ I started to say but Tommy cut me off by reaching forward for me as if to physically stop me.

“Don’t say the word,” he implored me, hands grasping at the air between us. “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.”

I patted at his hands before enveloping them in mine and said, “Why don’t we go somewhere private to talk? It won’t hear us there.”

I don’t exactly know why I said what I did. I only know that I acted impulsively and perhaps foolishly.

He hesitated for a few moments, obviously thinking it over until finally he nodded his head decisively. “Ok,” he said. “I trust you.” He nodded again. “I trust you.”

I smiled and gestured for us to stand. Then I led him outside to the small garden at the back of the property. It was a garden for staff and visitors only, and although at times patients where allowed to sit there, it was usually only with a doctor’s permission.

We sat on one of the benches, conveniently hidden behind some overlarge trees.

Tommy kept glancing around, these small furtive glances that spoke of his fear. Eventually, he began to relax by degrees when he realized that we were completely alone.

I decided to avoid the word shoggoth for now, since that seemed to upset him so.

“All right, Tommy. Can you tell me why you don’t think Dr. Carver is himself?”

“He was gone a couple of days ago. Do you remember?”

I did remember. He called in saying that he was ill and couldn’t come to work. I told Tommy as much.

Tommy nodded quickly. “Yeah, and he’s been different ever since. He’s not . . . not right.”

I took the next logical leap. “And you think that Dr. Carver is the shoggoth?”

Tommy flinched at the word but answered bravely enough. “Yes.”

“Dr. Carver is a very respected physician, Tommy. I’ve worked with him for years.”

“But he’s not him anymore. He’s . . .”

“Tommy, Dr. Carver was only gone one day and he looks exactly the same as he did before he left.”

“Well, that’s because –” Tommy stopped himself abruptly and stared down at the ground.

“What? That’s because what?”

He shook his head. “You won’t believe me. No one ever does.”

“Tommy, it’s ok. Just say it. It’s ok.”

He didn’t look at me when he spoke, not really. He barely raised his head, his hair easily obscuring most of his face.

“I think it’s wearing Dr. Carver.”

He paused, shifting toward me, his voice the barest of whispers. “I think it's wearing him like a second skin.”


	3. Chapter 3

I backed away from him then, shuddering deeply from the chill his words evoked. I stared at him, at the barely contained terror in his eyes, and felt a rush of protectiveness wash over me. I could see how much it was costing him to voice his fear, how brave he was being in speaking to me. 

Unfortunately, he was obviously completely and utterly mad. 

I had known that of course. I was well aware of his delusions, but hearing them laid out like this another matter entirely. It was an unsettling, horrific thing to hear about men being worn as suits.

Tommy pulled away as well, his face slipping into sadness and hurt, almost as if I’d betrayed him. 

“You don’t believe me.”

What was I to say to that? Once again I was painfully reminded that I’m a nurse, not a doctor, and that saying the wrong thing could be disastrous. “Tommy, it’s just that . . .”

“No, it’s ok. It was stupid to think you’d believe me. If I was you, I wouldn’t believe me.” 

He laughed, a humorless chuckle as he turned away. I sat, mute and uncertain, unsure of what to say. I had asked for this and yet, it was obviously more than I could handle. 

Tommy spoke before I could summon my next words. “Can we go back inside now?” 

He wouldn’t look at me and for some reason; this made me feel terribly guilty, as if I had let him down by not believing him. 

He turned back toward me, though he would no longer meet my eyes. “It’s getting dark. I don’t like the dark. Please.”

I acquiesced and escorted him back inside. I walked him directly to his room, waiting until he stepped inside. He turned around, and this time he did look at me, directly into my eyes and he smiled; soft and sad. 

“I used to be normal,” he said. Then he turned back around and walked fully inside. 

I believe that I shall stop here, dear reader. My eyes grow weary and my hand begins to ache. I will resume tomorrow, after I’ve rested. If I can rest. 

Dear reader, whomever you may be, it is a new night and once again I find it difficult to sleep. It’s for the best however; as I know that I must finish this journal once and for all. 

So where was I . . . yes, I finished my shift and returned home. I slept poorly that night, haunted once again by vague nightmares. 

The next day I returned to work to find a most curious thing. Not too long after I had signed in, one of my co-workers informed me that Dr. Carver had canceled all groups for the day. That in fact, the only patient he’d be seeing that day was Tommy.

This was odd behavior on its own, but knowing what I knew about Tommy and his fears concerning our good doctor, this was downright bizarre. Perhaps, I thought, Tommy hadn’t yet articulated his fears in therapy. 

I did not see Tommy that day but came upon him the next. I sat down at his table in the rec room and for several long moments merely stared, dumbfounded at the change I saw in him. It was most apparent in his hands. Where before his hands had always been moving, always alive and full of energy, now there was nothing. They sat upon the table, completely still, as reminiscent of a statue as the man himself. I looked into his eyes and saw, not the customary fear or nervousness, but a stare completely devoid of life or emotion.

“Hi, Tommy.”

He mouthed my name. That and his breathing were the only signs that the man before me was alive.

I found that I was afraid, afflicted with a quiet unease that I felt deep into my very bones. “How was the session with Dr. Carver?” I asked. 

“It found me,” Tommy said, his lifeless stare boring into me. His voice was just as flat and dull as the rest of him, a hushed monotone that betrayed nothing.

“The monster?”

“The shoggoth will always find the one it has chosen. There is no hiding from the eye.”

The fear spiked and my heart trembled. This was not the man I had come to know. He seemed to be in a trance, his mind far from here and his words not his own.

“The worm will consume its own. The prey will burn in the fires of a thousand hells. The flesh is the gate.”

I took hold of his hands and squeezed them, not with the intent to hurt, but to try and bring him back to himself. I needed to do something to stop the babble of insanity that was coming from his mouth. “Tommy, what are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

He blinked hard and turned his eyes to our linked hands. When he looked up, there was once again a spark of life in his eyes, though muted and small. He had come back to himself, but for how long?

“It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll be dead soon.” He pulled away from me and stood, wrapping his bathrobe around him as if it were armor. 

“Where are you going?” I asked, feeling helpless. 

“My room. It won’t be long now.”

He looked so very sad then and my heart went out to him. I felt terrible for my earlier dismissal of him and my decision not to engage him. At that moment I felt very certain that Tommy needed me, if only to be a witness to the horrors, imagined or real, that he was living through. 

The next day I went to Dr. Carver’s office. 

He was still seeing only Tommy, having assigned the groups and other patients to the other doctors. This was strange enough that all the staff seemed to be commenting on it, usually in hushed whispers in quiet corners. No matter what the reasoning, it was unusual and highly circumspect. Even possibly dangerous. At least to Tommy, whose spark seemed to grow dimmer with each passing day. 

The man greeted me politely enough but did not invite me to sit. I stayed standing, looking him over and trying to see what it was that had frightened Tommy so. 

But I could not. The man looked the same as he always did. Tall and slight of build with salt and pepper hair, the man appeared the very model of a distinguished psychiatrist. 

“You wanted to see me? Adam, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I wanted to talk about your patient. Tommy.”

He stood by the window, his gaze turned toward it and affording me a view of his profile. He did not turn when he answered. “Thomas. Yes. A very sick boy.”

“Yes, he is,” I said. “And he seems to be getting worse. I’m concerned for him.”

“Are you?” He turned toward me now and leveled at me a cool, distant look. “And you, an orderly, have come to speak to me about him? How interesting.”

I took a deep breath and plunged forward, my misgivings at speaking with him overruled by my concern for Tommy. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the monster that he believes is after him . . . he believes that you’re that monster. Or that you’re a monster underneath. Like it’s taken you over.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of his delusions, Adam.”

I could not hide my surprise, and though I knew that I was treading on very dangerous ground, challenging a doctor wasn’t smart in the best of circumstances, I couldn’t help but to exclaim, “Then surely you have to see how frightened he is of you. Wouldn’t it be best to have another doctor treat him?”

Dr. Carver turned back to the window and whispered, “There is no hiding from the eye.”

In that moment, I felt pure fear, the shock of it electric and hot in my veins. I stepped back and asked, “What?”

“I said that he can’t hide from his delusions. To pamper him would be to allow the delusions to take hold and grow. He must be made to face reality.”

But that wasn’t what he had said. I had not misheard nor misinterpreted his words. I took another step back, for now all I wanted was to be free of this room. “Right. Of course, you’re right, Doctor.”

Dr. Carver turned to me and smiled. Or at least, he made attempt at it. But the smile looked sickly and grim and wrong, as if he had never done it before and wasn’t quite certain how to move the muscles to form it. His face twitched and trembled and finally he gave up altogether. “I’m glad you agree. Adam.”

It was at that precise moment that I believed. I believed everything, every single word that Tommy had told me and I trembled knowing that I was in the presence of a monster. 

“I should go,” I stuttered. 

Dr. Carver, or whatever it was that lived inside of Dr. Carver, nodded and said, “Yes, I’m sure you have your duties to attend to.”

I fled from the room, not stopping until I was on the other side of the building. Only then did I feel safe and even then only marginally. I waited until my trembling subsided and my skin no longer felt like it was crawling from my frame. 

I then did the only thing I could think to do, before common sense and logic overrode what I had felt in that room. 

I found Tommy sitting in his room, staring out into nothingness. I sat down next to him and, ignoring all rules of proprietary and my profession, I took hold of his hands and brought them close to my chest. I waited until his gaze met mine and then I said, delibrately and slowly, “I’ve been to see Dr. Carver. I need you to tell me everything about the shoggoth. Everything, Tommy.”


End file.
